


how to pepper spray your best friend in the face

by whiplash



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 04:29:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3837145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>According to canon, Matt can smell pepper spray at fifty feet. What happens when he gets sprayed straight in the face with it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Matt doesn't scream. That's the worst part.

It's not because of some stoic superhero bullshit either. Which is just as well because Foggy doesn't subscribe to that crap. Real men wept over stubbed toes. True fact. No, the reason's much worse. Matt's not screaming because Matt's not really breathing.

Matt had started out breathing of course. Breathing and talking and smiling that stupid goofy smile of his. Then Foggy had made a Huge Mistake. His Rubik's cube had gone missing some days earlier and his hands -- his stupid, restless, capricious hands -- had picked up Karen's keychain just to have something to fiddle with as they drank their morning coffee and traded witty banter.

That’s when something went wrong. That thing just malfunctioned. One moment everything was fine, the next the damned thing went off, spraying Matt straight in the face. Then there had been screaming. Mostly Foggy’s, but Matt had contributed his fair share too. Foggy doesn’t want to think about that too much. He’s pretty sure that the whole thing will haunt his dreams for a damn long time as is and, frankly, he has better things to focus on at the moment. Like the whole ‘best friend not breathing’ thing.

“You gotta breathe, Matty,” he says, for what has to be the tenth time in a row. “You haveta.”

At least the flailing has stopped. Foggy has a newfound respect for Matt’s mad ninja vigilante workout routine and what it does to a man’s quads. So, he imagines, do the walls. And the little ficus tree that Karen had rescued from a sidewalk. When Foggy had told her that she’d actually just doomed the poor plant to a fate worse than homelessness, this wasn’t at all what he’d had in mind. He just hopes that she won’t be too cross. He also really hopes that his wall-mending cousin won’t mind stepping up and helping a brother – well, cousin – out again without making Foggy pay through the nose for it.

“Breathe,” he repeats. “Buddy, please, c’mon. Breathe.”

Matt gasps. It’s a pretty awful sound, far worse than nails on chalkboard or a five a.m. morning alarm after a night out at Josie's. Foggy does his best not to listen. Instead he attempts to try and pry Matt’s clawed fingers away from his face. He soon realizes though he’d have about as much luck trying to arm-wrestle with the Hulk. Matt’s unfairly strong for a skinny guy. When this is all over, Foggy should really consider asking him for some workout advice.

“Matty,” he pleads, using the kind of cajoling voice he usually saves for teasing his sister’s youngest kid out of a tantrum. “Matty, c’mon. Don't do this to me..”

How long could a guy go without breathing anyway? Foggy can’t see Matt’s face at all, but the guy's fingernails seem to be shifting from a healthy pink to a pale blue. He's no health care professional, but he’s pretty sure that can’t be a good sign. Health care professional. Health-

Cursing himself for being a slow-witted, potentially best-friend-murdering asshole he reaches into Matt’s pocket and pulls out a set of phones. Phones, plural. One which will, you know, connect Foggy with an honest to god Health Care Professional. As he waits for Claire to pick up, he vows to Matt that he’ll be a better friend in the future. He’ll stop switching Matt’s plain coffee cups for ones with pictures of kittens and puppies. He’ll stop leaving half-eaten bags of cheezy snacks around to stink up the place. He’ll maybe even consider not doing his morning number two in the office.

“What. Now?”

Claire doesn’t sound very happy. In fact, she sounds positively pissed off and scary. And possibly like she just woke up from a really nice dream in which she had absolutely nothing to do with crazy, costume-wearing assholes. Foggy knows that dream. He has that dream at least a couple of times a week. On the bright side, she also sounds really freaking competent and, best of all, not at all like someone who wants a long, self-incriminating explanation of just how -

“Matt got pepper sprayed in the face. He’s not breathing right. What do I do?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Baby shampoo.”

Karen juggles her handbag, the box of donuts and her takeaway cup of cream and sugar with a dash of coffee with all the skill of an ambidextrous octopus as she shifts the phone from her right ear to her left. After all, she must have misheard.

“What was that?” she says, using her most professional voice.

“Baby shampoo,” Foggy repeats. He sounds like he’s been running a marathon.

Karen glances down at the donuts, reconsidering her purchase. Matt’s been going on for months about their crappy diets – “ _Chocolate’s not a proper substitute for lunch_ ,” he’ll tell her, sounding so very adult and longsuffering, “ _nor, Foggy, is a bag of Doritos_.” – and listening to Foggy huff and puff, she can’t help but wonder if maybe he has a point. Premature, grease-induced death would be a terrible thing. On the other hand, _sprinkles_. She hugs the box closer. Besides, there’s no rule saying that she has to share. She had a salad for lunch last week. If Foggy can't find a good balance in his diet, then that's his (and Matt's) problem.

Strange sounds filter through the phone, drawing her attention away from the baked goods.

“Baby shampoo what?” she demands. “And where are you?”

Is that the sound of running water? And what’s with the strange panting sou-

“Franklin P Nelson,” Karen hisses, her eyes narrowing as she begins to stomp towards the office. She’s going to kill him. She’s going to kill them both. “If you’re calling me from the bathroom again then so help me-“

“It’s Matt,” Foggy interrupts. “He’s hurt. There was an accident.”

Karen hates getting a sense of déjà vu under even the best of circumstances. These are not the best of circumstances. This is a Monday morning donut run interrupted by strange and mysterious demands. She grits her teeth and the plastic phone creaks alarmingly in her hand.

“Don’t tell me,” she says, smiling with all her teeth. “He got hit by a car.”

It still pisses her off. Not just that someone would beat up someone who has no way of fighting back, but also that they'd tried to protect her from the ugly truth. Out of the three of them, Karen isn't the one who needs protecting. She can take care of herself. She has her pepperspray.

“No, no, no-“

Foggy’s voice breaks off, at the same time as the muffled background sound grows stronger. More exasperated.

“Stop that,” he says, obviously no longer speaking to Karen. “I’ve told you, Matt, you can’t do that, just sit down. No, no, stop it.”

There’s a pharmacy on the other side of the street. She crosses, ignoring the screech of tires.

Donuts temporarily forgotten, Karen Page’s on a quest for baby shampoo.


	3. Chapter 3

She reaches the office in record time only to be rewarded by the unmistakable stench of vomit.

As a sympathy puker Karen has to take a moment to fight her first -- perfectly normal and reasonable, thank you very much -- response of slamming the door shut, getting the hell out of Dodge and then negotiating her return to a clean, aired-out office first thing Tuesday morning. Only the knowledge that her two best friends are in there and in trouble keeps her from turning on her heel. Well, that and the fact that she left the keys to her apartment on her desk.

“Guys,” she calls, breathing through her mouth. “Guys?”

“In here,” Foggy answers, his voice coming from the direction of the office kitchenette. “Hurry!”

He sounds worried, so she swallows down her rising nausea and steps across the threshold. High heels tap a click-click-clickety-clack rhythm against the floor. The pharmacy bag slams against her thigh. It’s gonna leave a whooper of a bruise, she thinks, limiting her wardrobe choices for weeks. One of the many drawbacks of being so pale. That’s not her main concern right now though. No, that would be the two idiots curled up around each other on the floor.

“What the hell,” she greets them, trying to make sense of it all. Someone’s opened a window – no, make that all the windows – yet the air smells of… roach killer? No. Something else. Something familiar. A memory escapes from its place in the locked vault in the furthest corner of her mind. She forces it back, but not before it’s left her throat tight and her heart slamming against her ribs. She looks at her desk, just to confirm. And yup, her keychain’s missing.

“Pepper spray?” she asks, moving on autopilot as she maneuvers past them and towards the sink. On the way she grabs the fruit bowl (courtesy of one Matt healthnut Murdock), emptying half a dozen oranges onto the floor before filling it with cold water. She makes a mental note to tell Matt to stop buying oranges. No one wants the oranges. The oranges are positively evil. Not only are they messy to eat but they also make the paperwork all sticky and impossible to file.

“It was an accident,” Foggy answers. He’s taken off his suit jacket and the back of his shirt’s damp with sweat, clinging to his skin. Waves of misery radiate off him, almost as tangible as the stench of puke and capsaicin. Karen refuses to feel sorry for him. He’s ruined her donut run. Worse than that, he’s ruined her appetite.

“Baby shampoo?” she asks instead, already digging in the bag for the plastic bottle.

“Baby shampoo,” he confirms. She squirts out half the bottle into the water, stirring it together with her fingertips. Carrying the bowl with her, she then pushes past Foggy to kneel down next to Matt. The scene that meets her eyes can’t be described as anything but pathetic. The way sad baby animals are pathetic.

Matt’s hugging the waste basket to his chest, long legs stretched out in front of him and his head tipped backward. He’s pale except for red smudges across each cheekbone, mouth half-open as he pants in a way that ought to unflattering. Instead, because the world’s an unfair place, it just makes him look like an overheated Labrador puppy. Water trails down his face and there’s something covering his eyes, something wet and gray and… strangely familiar.

Karen’s eyes narrow.

“Is that my scarf?” she demands, seeing red even as she gently bats away Foggy’s hands to peel the fabric away from Matt’s face. “Is that my cashmere and silk blend scarf? The one that cost more than the rest of my wardrobe combined?”

“Maybe?” Foggy answers, his eyes wide and unhappy. “I’m really, really sorry.”

Karen doesn’t hear him. Matt’s eyes stare past her, as unseeing as ever. Around them the skin's swollen and red. She dips her scarf into the soapy water and wipes carefully, from the corner of one eye and out as if removing makeup. Her breathing hitches as she finds the scratch marks. When she glances down at Matt’s hands, she’s not at all surprised to find blood underneath his nails.

“Oh, no,” she says, voice thick. “Oh, Matt.”


	4. Chapter 4

Matt’s been through a lot in the past year.

He’s been bruised and battered, shot and stabbed, and, on a very memorable occasion, nearly blown up. He’s all but bled to death, had enough stiches done that Frankenstein’s monster might well mistake him for a close relative and so many concussions that Claire’s threatening to send Foggy a list of the long-term effects of multiple head trauma. He’s fought with Russian drug dealers, a yakuza ninja and a kingpin of crime. Worst of all, he’s fought with Foggy.

Getting accidentally pepper sprayed in the face… it shouldn’t rate so high on his list of miseries and woes. If fact, Matt’s the first to argue that it’s most likely a case of divine justice. While he’s long since stopped keeping count of all the ways he’s let Foggy down since he first put on the mask, Matt’s never stopped feeling bad about it. He’s hurt Foggy, hurt him bad enough that Matt almost lost him for good. A few hours of discomfort doesn’t even begin to pay off his debt.

Now, if only he could make his body listen to reason and stop… throwing… up.

xxx

“Sorry,” Matt hiccups. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Shuddup,” Foggy snaps, giving up on counting to ten. Maybe it works for exhausted moms in charge of half a dozen wild toddlers, but it just doesn’t cut it for when dealing with Matt the Martyr Murdock. “Just… stop apologizing, okay?”

If looks could kill, Foggy’s pretty sure he’d be dead by now. He can feel Karen’s eyes burning twin holes through the back of his head. His only consolation is that at least then his mom will never find out that he pepper sprayed Matt in the face. The thought cheers him up for all of three seconds. Then Matt heaves again. He sounds and looks remarkably like a half-drowned kitten, hacking up a hairball while the saddest song ever recorded plays in the background.

“Hey Karen,” Foggy asks, reaching for the waste basket again. They’re gonna have to buy a new one, he decides. And possibly kill the old one with fire. “What would you say was the saddest song ever recorded?”

Considering the question himself he rubs a hand absently over Matt’s sweaty back, muttering dumb things like _there you go, better out than in, you’re doing good there, buddy_ until Matt sags against him with an exhausted groan. Thinking out loud he continues;

“How about the one that goes… laa lalala laa la, dum dum dum dum dum...?”

”What?”

“You know, the one with the sad bald guy and the-“

Foggy glances over his shoulder, catches one look at Karen’s face and shuts up.

Drinks are definitely on him tonight.


End file.
